Fan Fiction

WHY WOMAN KILL. Content Warning. AI-Generated.
The phrase "why women kill" has inspired popular television shows and true crime podcasts, but the real-world science behind female homicide is even more fascinating. Criminologically, women are far less likely to commit murder than men, accounting for only about 10% to 15% of homicides globally. However, when women do kill, their motives, methods, and psychology differ significantly from those of their male counterparts.
By Akmal95Jr5 months ago in Fiction
The Stranger Who Knew My Future
I first saw him on a rainy Tuesday evening. The kind of rain that makes the world feel quieter, like everything is holding its breath. I was sitting at a nearly empty café, scrolling mindlessly through my phone, trying to ignore the weight of another ordinary day.
By Mariana Farias5 months ago in Fiction
Toy Story Dog
In a quiet neighborhood, behind a house filled with broken toys and scattered memories, lived a fierce dog named Scud. People saw him as dangerous—always barking, always chasing, always angry. Children avoided the yard, and even adults kept their distance. To them, Scud was nothing more than a guard dog with sharp teeth and a wild temper.
By hamad khan5 months ago in Fiction
Midnight Bus
The bus doors opened with a long metallic sigh, even though no one had pressed the stop button. For a moment, I stood on the empty sidewalk wondering if I had imagined it. The streetlights flickered softly above me, and the road stretched into darkness like an unanswered question. I had been waiting for nearly thirty minutes, and the city around me had already fallen asleep.
By Vocal Member 5 months ago in Fiction
The Witch Who Rewards the Wicked
Everyone in our village knew the stories. Not the friendly ones that made children giggle. Not the tales whispered at fairs or around the fire. No—these were the warnings, the kind that left grown men shivering and women clutching their shawls.
By Mariana Farias6 months ago in Fiction
The Day My Dad Forgot Me
I walked into the kitchen like any other morning, expecting the usual smell of burnt coffee and the quiet hum of Dad humming along to some old jazz record.
By Mariana Farias6 months ago in Fiction
You're the CIA's Most Valuable Asset They Never Officially Hired. AI-Generated.
It's 3:12 a.m. when your phone vibrates exactly twice and goes silent. No name. No number. Just a coordinate dropped into an encrypted app that will delete itself in forty seconds. You've been asleep for maybe ninety minutes. You don't feel tired. You stopped feeling tired somewhere around the second year of doing this, when your body quietly made peace with the fact that rest was now a luxury and not a right. You memorize the coordinate. The app dissolves. You're already pulling on your jacket. Nobody knows what you do. Not your sister, who thinks you consult for an import logistics firm. Not your neighbors, who have never once seen you leave at a normal hour. Not the government of the United States of America, which benefits from your work every single week and has never once put your name on a single document. That's the arrangement. That's always been the arrangement. You don't exist on their payroll. You don't exist in their system. You exist in a category that has no official name, somewhere between contractor, ghost, and necessary problem. The man who first approached you didn't wear a badge. He never does. He sat across from you in a coffee shop in Lisbon seven years ago and slid a manila envelope across the table without making eye contact. Inside was a photograph of a conversation you'd had two weeks earlier in a private room you were certain was clean. You weren't angry. You were impressed. And he knew you would be, because they had been watching you long enough to understand exactly how you think. He said three sentences. He told you what they needed. He told you what they couldn't do legally. He told you what they were willing to offer in return. Then he stood up, left his coffee untouched, and walked out. You sat there for eleven minutes. Then you picked up the envelope, put it inside your bag, and walked in the opposite direction. That was the beginning. The coordinate tonight puts you in the eastern edge of a city you've worked twice before. You know the streets well enough to navigate without looking at anything. You park four blocks away from where you need to be, because four blocks is close enough to move fast and far enough that no camera catches your plates near the location. These are not things you were taught. These are things you developed, refined, and tested until they became automatic. The building is a mid-tier hotel. Business travelers. Forgettable. You walk through the lobby like you belong there, because you do, because you always belong everywhere you decide to walk into. That's not arrogance. That's a skill you built the way other people build businesses, slowly, deliberately, by failing smaller until you stopped failing at all. Room 614. You don't knock. The door is already unlocked, left that way by someone who arrived before you and will be gone before you leave. Inside, a laptop is open on the desk. A single document is pulled up. You read it in four minutes. The target is a mid-level attaché connected to a foreign ministry. He's been feeding procurement intelligence to a private network that is, in turn, selling access to three different state actors, two of which are actively hostile to U.S. interests. The Agency can't touch him. He has diplomatic proximity, not full immunity, but enough legal friction that any official action would take eighteen months and leave fingerprints everywhere. They need the information he's carrying. Not him. Just what's inside his devices and his head. They need you because you can get close to him in a way no official operative can. Because you have a cover identity that's been seasoned for three years in exactly the right circles. Because you understand how men like him think, what they want, what they're afraid of, and how to become whatever is necessary to occupy the space between those two things. You close the laptop. It shuts down automatically. You leave the room exactly as you found it. This is not espionage the way movies tell it. There is no glamour in the waiting. There is no music in the moment you sit across from someone and slowly, carefully dismantle their defenses without them ever feeling the pressure. It is slow. It is precise. It is the most demanding performance a human being can give, because the audience cannot know they're watching a performance at all. You spend eleven days building proximity to the target. You attend the same industry conference. You are introduced through a mutual contact you cultivated eight months ago for reasons that had nothing to do with this operation and everything to do with the kind of long-game positioning that makes you worth what the Agency pays you in ways that never appear on any financial record. By day three, he knows your cover name. By day six, he trusts your cover story. By day nine, he's told you something he shouldn't have told anyone. That's the moment. Not dramatic. Not loud. Just a sentence, spoken over dinner, in a restaurant he chose, in a city that will never appear in any report. A sentence that confirms what they suspected and opens a door to what they need to know. You smile at the right moment. You ask one follow-up question, casual, almost disinterested. He answers it. And in that answer is everything. You report through a system that has no email, no call logs, no digital trail that connects to you. A method that changes quarterly. Right now it's a dead drop built inside a legitimate business transaction. You make a purchase. The purchase contains a message. The message is read by one person on the other side who has no idea who you are and knows better than to try finding out. The response comes back in thirty-six hours. Confirmed. Stand down. Move to contingency position. You move. You don't know what happens to the attaché after you leave. You've learned not to ask. You asked twice in the early years and both times the answer was either silence or something vague enough to mean anything. You've made your peace with operating inside a fraction of the picture. You see your piece. You execute your piece. The rest belongs to people sitting in buildings with acronyms above the door who will never acknowledge you exist. There are moments, usually late, usually when the work is done and the adrenaline has metabolized and you're alone in a hotel room or an apartment that isn't really yours, when you feel the weight of what you've become. Not guilt exactly. Something more complex than guilt. A recognition that you have moved so far from ordinary life that you are no longer certain you could find your way back to it even if they let you go. And that's the part nobody tells you at the beginning. They don't tell you that you'll get good enough at becoming other people that your original self starts to feel like just another cover. They don't tell you that the skills that make you exceptional at this work, the ability to read people, to suppress your own reactions, to be precisely what a situation requires, are the same skills that make genuine human connection feel increasingly foreign. They don't tell you that the arrangement, the one with no contract and no name and no official record, means that the protection only runs in one direction. You are valuable to them as long as you are functional. You understand this. You have always understood this. You understood it in that coffee shop in Lisbon before you ever picked up the envelope. Your phone vibrates twice and goes silent. New coordinate. Forty seconds. You're already memorizing it.
By It's Jeem6 months ago in Fiction
The Darkest Side Of The Moon,
The Darkest Side Of The Moon, There was never anything comforting about the moon after that night. People look up and see something distant, something quiet, but they only ever see the part that allows itself to be seen. No one talks about the other side, the part that never turns, the part that keeps itself hidden. I did not think about it either, not until it found its way into my life without asking.
By ♿ V+ Marie381Uk 6 months ago in Fiction
The Café
Every Customer Gets One Visit and One Question Answered THE DOOR BETWEEN WORLDS 🚪 The café appears on different streets in different cities on different nights, never in the same location twice, and the people who find it are always people who are about to face the most significant decision of their lives though they do not always know this when they walk through the door drawn by the warm light and the smell of coffee that is better than any coffee they have ever experienced and by something else, something they cannot name but that feels like recognition, like the café has been waiting specifically for them even though they have never seen it before and will never see it again because the café grants each person only one visit and during that visit they are served a meal that tastes exactly like the most meaningful meal of their life, the meal that represents their deepest happiness, and they are allowed to ask one question that will be answered truthfully by the proprietor, a woman of indeterminate age who seems to know everything about everyone who walks through her door 🌙
By The Curious Writer6 months ago in Fiction
I Met My Future Self at a Bus Stop
I never thought a bus stop could feel like the edge of the world. It was rainy, cold, the kind of evening where streetlights glisten on wet asphalt and the hum of traffic becomes a lonely soundtrack. I waited under the flickering shelter, clutching my bag like it could somehow anchor me to reality.
By Mariana Farias6 months ago in Fiction
Dutch Teens Have Better Sex Educations Than Americans.
Americans are hung up about sex. Because our real religion is capitalism, we are comfortable using sex to sell stuff. Sex that is not in service to advertising, however, makes us squeamish.
By Edward Smith6 months ago in Fiction
The City Beneath the Silence
In the northern reaches of Europe, where winter stretched long and the sky often wore a pale, endless grey, there was a small coastal town named Eldmere. To outsiders, it seemed like any other quiet settlement—cobblestone streets, flickering lanterns, and houses pressed together as if sharing secrets. But beneath Eldmere, hidden far below its ancient foundations, lay something no map had ever dared to record.
By Iazaz hussain6 months ago in Fiction